forgive, but can never forget. One day, a dirty
stranger touched me on the shoulder, and
showed me a dirty slip of paper which I at
first presumed to be his card. Before I could
tell him what a vulgar document it looked
like, two more dirty strangers put me into a
hackney coach. Before I could prove to them
that this proceeding was a gross infringement
on the liberties of the British subject, I
found myself lodged within the walls of a
prison.

Well! and what of that? Who am I that
I should object to being in prison, when so
many of the royal personages and illustrious
characters of history have been there before
me? Can I not carry on my vocation in
greater comfort here than I could in my
father's house ? Have I any anxieties
outside these walls? No: for my beloved sister
is married—the family net has landed Mr.
Batterbury at last. No: for I read in the
paper, but the other day, that Doctor Softly
(doubtless through the interest of Lady
Malkinshaw) has been appointed the King's-
Barber - Surgeon's - Deputy - Consulting
Physician. My relatives are comfortable in their
sphere—let me proceed forthwith to make
myself comfortable in mine. Pen, ink, and
paper, if you please, Mr. Gaoler : I wish to
write to my esteemed publisher.

Dear Sir,—Please advertise a series of twelve Racy
Prints, from my fertile pencil, entitled Scenes of
Modern Prison Life, by Thersites Junior. The two
first designs will be ready by the end of the week, to
be paid for on delivery, according to the terms settled
between us for my previous publications of the same
size. With great regard and esteem, faithfully yours,
FRANK SOFTLY.

Having thus provided for my support in
prison, I was enabled to introduce myself to
my fellow-debtors, and to study character
for the new series of prints, on the very first
day of my incarceration, with my mind quite
at ease.

If the reader desires to make acquaintance
with the associates of my captivity, I must
refer him to Scenes of Modern Prison Life,
by Thersites Junior, now doubtless
extremely scarce, but producible to the demands
of patience and perseverance, I should
imagine, if anybody will be so obliging as to pass
a week or so over the catalogue of the
British Museum. My fertile pencil has
delineated the characters I met with, at that
period of my life, with a force and distinctness
which my pen cannot hope to rival—has
pourtrayed them all more or less prominently,
with the one solitary exception of a prisoner
called Gentleman Jones. The reasons why I
excluded him from my portrait-gallery are
so honourable to both of us, that I must ask
permission briefly to record them.

My fellow captives soon discovered that I
was studying their personal peculiarities for
my own advantage and for the public amusement.
Some thought the thing a good joke ;
some objected to it, and quarrelled with me.
Liberality in the matter of liquor and small
loans, reconciled a large proportion of the
objectors to their fate; the sulky minority
I treated with contempt, and scourged
avengingly with the smart lash of caricature.
I was at that time probably the most
impudent man of my age in all England, and
the common herd of ill-tempered prisoners
quailed before the magnificence of my
assurance. One prisoner only set me and my
pencil successfully at defiance. That prisoner
was Gentleman Jones.

He had received his name from the suavity
of his countenance, the inveterate politeness
of his language, and the unassailable
composure of his manner. He was in the prime
of life, but very bald—had been in the army
and the coal trade—wore very stiff collars
and prodigiously long wristbands—never
laughed, but talked with remarkable glibness,
and was never known to lose his temper under
the most aggravating circumstances of prison
existence.

He abstained from interfering with me and
my studies, until it was reported in our society,
that in the sixth print of my series, Gentleman
Jones, highly caricatured, was to form
one of the principal figures. He then
appealed to me personally and publicly, on the
racket-ground, in the following terms:

"Sir," said he, with his usual politeness
and his unwavering smile, "you will greatly
oblige me by not caricaturing my personal
peculiarities. I am so unfortunate as not to
possess a sense of humour; and if you did
my likeness, I am afraid I should not see the
joke of it."

"Sir," I returned, with my customary
impudence, "it is not of the slightest
importance whether you see the joke of it or
not. The public will—and that is enough
for me."

With that civil speech, I turned on my
heel; and the prisoners near all burst out
laughing. Gentleman Jones, not in the least
altered or ruffled, smoothed down his
wristbands, smiled, and walked away.

The same evening I was in my room alone,
designing the new print, when there came a
knock at the door, and Gentleman Jones
walked in. I got up, and asked what the
devil he wanted. He smiled, and turned up
his long wristbands.

"Only to give you a lesson in politeness,"
said Gentleman Jones.

"What do you mean, sir? How dare
you——? "

The answer was a smart slap in the face.
I instantly struck out in a state of fury—
was stopped with great neatness—and
received in return a blow on the head, which
sent me down on the carpet half stunned,
and too giddy to know the difference between
the floor and the ceiling.

"Sir," said Gentleman Jones, smoothing
down his wristbands again, and addressing